


You Are The Space In My Bed

by ariane221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, One Shot, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariane221b/pseuds/ariane221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John has nightmares, Sherlock can't help but be  little bit worried when they start to interrupt his experiments. <br/>One-shot fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are The Space In My Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song No Light, No light by Florence And The Machine. I don't own Sherlock, or anything related to it.   
> A one shot I wrote late at night, while feeling fluffy. It hasn't been beta'd, so please point out any errors to me.   
> Fluff/Comfort/Friendship  
> Johnlock  
> 1193 words  
> Enjoy x

"Dammit." The test tube slipped out of his fingers and crashed to the floor, shattering on the tiles. Luminous green liquid seeped out across the floor. Well, that was going to be a devil to clean. The floor would probably now glow in the dark. Sherlock frowned at the celling, towards the noise that had disturbed him. He had been in the middle of an experiment into the effects of phosphorus on two day old corpses, when he had heard a dull thump come from John’s room, upstairs, which had sounded very much like a book being knocked to the floor.  
A few seconds later, the sound came again, followed by the noise of cracking china. Tea cup. This was the third night in a row John had slept badly, but he hadn't broken anything before. He had come down stairs that morning deathly pale, with dark purple shadows haunting his eyes, and a distinct unwillingness to tell Sherlock what was wrong.   
He knelt on the floor, and started to mop up the liquid with the cloth from the draining board. Now that would probably glow as well; Mrs. Hudson would probably be cross with him. Another noise came from upstairs, different this time, as Sherlock paused to listen. It sounded like someone crying out, like they were scared or upset, and it sounded like John. It was John. Definitely John, but why was John scared?   
Sherlock tossed the cloth into the sink, and went to stand at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister and tried to decide what to do next.   
What he wanted to do was to go back to the kitchen, and carry on injecting zinc into the arm on the kitchen table, but when he turned to leave, a strange feeling suddenly held onto the top of his ribs. What was that? Guilt? No, that didn't make sense, the noises weren't his fault. Sympathy then. Yes, that seemed much more likely.  
He looked back up the stairs. Flat mates were meant to look after each other - No, friends were supposed to look after each other. Slowly, he ascended the stairs, listening for more noises. It was dark; the only light was the dusty yellow of the street lamp outside the landing window. John’s door was ajar, and from inside Sherlock could hear someone tossing around in bed.  
He had never really been inside John's room before, only when they had been moving in, and Sherlock had carried a box or two upstairs in an attempt to seem like a nice person. He thought that should at least pretend to be halfway decent, if he was going to be living with the man. Two years later, and John had found out he was an arse, but he was still here, and Sherlock hadn't been in his room since.  
Gently, he pushed the door open further, and stepped into the room. John's bed stood against the opposite wall, under the small window. There was a bedside table, which now only held a lamp and an old plate, with fragments of toast crumbs and jam. The book shelf was neatly organized, the wardrobe closed. Very unlike Sherlock’s room. On the floor by the bed, there was a book, the pages lying open and crumpled, and the broken tea cup.   
The blind on the window had not been closed, so light spilled across John face, throwing shadows over his skin, which only emphasized the sheen of sweat on his brown, the downward twist of his mouth, the creases around his eyes as he shifted again, and a slight whining noise escaped his throat. The duvet had been pushed off most of his upper body, to show his bare torso, glittering with crisscrossing scar tissue.   
Sherlock watched him for a few moments. Obviously, he was having a nightmare. It was a frequent nightmare, Sherlock decided, as John clawed at the skin on his left shoulder, where the scar tissue was much, much worse.  
He couldn’t say why he did it; why he walked over to the bed, and crouched down. He picked up the book, and carefully put it back onto the bedside table, making sure none of the pages were folded under.   
Very slowly, he reached out, and touched the skin on John’s upper arm. As if shot with a blot of electricity, John snapped awake, twisted sharply to the side and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.   
“Jesus, Sherlock,” He let of his wrist, and fell back against the pillows. “Don’t do that.” He shivered, and Sherlock felt… worried.   
“You were making noise.” He moved, so he was sat on the very edge of the bed. “It disturbed me.”  
“Mmph, I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He rolled over, so that Sherlock couldn’t see his face, and shook slightly again.   
“John? John, what’s wrong?”  
“Nothing, I’m fine.”  
“No you’re not. You broke a cup.”  
“Did I? Oh, bollocks.” He ran a hand over his face, still refusing to look at Sherlock. Carefully, he reached out, and touched the back of John’s hand, who didn’t move away, but instead turned very, very still, as if he knew that Sherlock (for once) didn’t actually have a clue what he was doing. He wrapped his fingers around John’s hand, and John very gently squeezed back.   
“Thanks mate.” Sherlock saw Johns lip twitch, in a slight smile. His breathing eventually returned to normal, in, out, in, out, in, out. Sherlock felt himself leaning down towards John’s body, and John squeezed his hand again.  
“Stay.” He whispered.   
So Sherlock did. He settled down, behind John’s back, still holding onto his hand, so that his arm was wrapped across John’s stomach. Unconsciously, they shifted closer together, so that their bodies lay parallel, back touching chest. Sherlock pressed his cheek against John’s neck, where he could hear John’s pulse, and counted, whispering the numbers and John relaxed, forgetting the nightmare piece, by jagged piece. Sherlock pressed his lips to the hollow just behind John’s ear, and it felt… fine. It was all… fine.   
They stayed like that for some time, listening to the clicking of the clock on the wall and the occasional passing traffic, and the noise of three people from across the road returning home from the centre of the city. At some point, John rolled over, so that he was facing Sherlock.   
“I’m sorry I disturbed you.” His breath tickled Sherlock’s jaw, and his eyelashes brushed his forehead. Sherlock moved his head, to nudge John’s chin with his nose.   
“It’s ok. I don’t… mind. I, um, I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”   
“Thank you.” And oh-so-carefully, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, and Sherlock pressed back, and he could feel John smiling against his mouth, as he touched Sherlock’s jaw, to tilt his head back, and open his mouth ever-so-slightly. Much too soon, John pulled back, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, to see how he would react, then frowned slightly.   
“What? What’s wrong?”  
“Um… this may sound mad, but… why are there luminous green footprints across my carpet?”  
And Sherlock laughed, and he felt… happy.


End file.
